Chapter Text
“Statement ends,” Jon says, turning off the tape recorder with a click before leaning back in his chair with a sigh. He’s tired, but lately he feels like he’s always been tired, always been seeing things out of the corner of his eyes, little wriggling silver shapes coming for him but that’s, well—
Jon runs his hands over his face, feeling the scars along his cheek and neck, shivering a little with revulsion and memory. Jane Prentiss is dead, he knows that, but memories and fear last far beyond bodies—
There’s a knock at Jon’s door, a quiet little series of taps that tell Jon who it is before he hears Martin’ voice.
“Jon? Can I come in?”
“I was just leaving,” Jon says quickly, getting up and reaching for his coat. Ever since the attack on the Institute, Martin has been— hovering— for lack of a better term, and Jon has a feeling Martin has come around to tell him that it’s late and he should go home. Never mind that Martin is also here late and by his own logic should be going home as well.
“That’s good! I mean— I’m glad I caught you before you left. It’ll just take a second.”
There was no avoiding it, even if Jon had wanted to. There was only one door into and out of his office after all. He opened the door and looked up at Martin, who was giving Jon a rather sheepish little smile. It was a sight Jon was very familiar with. For such a large man, Martin’s facial expressions tended towards the small and subtle. Slight smiles, nearly imperceptible frowns.
“Hi. Umm—“ There it was, the concerned narrowing of brows. “Are you all right, Jon? You look— tired.”
“That’s because I am tired, Martin. I could say the same for you.” There were dark shadows under the man’s eyes, and Jon finds himself thinking that they don’t suit Martin at all. “Haven’t been sleeping well?”
“Not really,” Martin admits. “Nightmares, you know. But it’s fine!” He says this quickly, smiling, and the smile is just wide enough that Jon knows it to be false.
When had he gotten so good at learning Martin’s tells? Well, he had been working with Martin for awhile, and when you see someone every day, you got to know their face pretty well too. That was all it was, surely.
“There was something you wanted?” Jon asks, shrugging on his coat. He doesn’t mean to be unkind, he really doesn’t, but he can hear the irritation plain in his voice, and can see it reflected in the hurt in Martin’s eyes. He sighs. “Sorry. Just— tired. It’s been a long week.”
“It’s all right, I understand,” Martin says, and it sounds sincere. “I just— well, I finished this last night and—“ He reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a bundle wrapped in tissue paper, thrusting it in Jon’s direction. “I wanted you to have it.”
Jon takes the package with not a little bit of confusion. It feels soft underneath the wrapping. “Why? What is it?”
“Well, you could open it and find out,” Martin says with a nervous little laugh. There’s a flush starting to crawl across his face, highlighting the scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. “And, I mean, hasn’t anyone ever given you a present for no reason?”
“Can’t say that’s been something that’s happened to me before now, no.” Jon admits as he carefully tears at the wrapping. A moment later he’s running his fingers over a soft wool scarf the color of a winter sky just before sunset turns to night. He didn’t know yarn could be so soft, could carry such complex colors. His experience with such things had been the afghans his grandmother had used to crochet, plasticky feeling and itchy, the yarn starting out too bright and fading with time and the sun.
“I took up knitting while I was living here in the archive,” Jon hears Martin saying. “I couldn’t sleep then either, and being awake with nothing to do felt like— like being trapped back at my apartment with only my books. So I figured if I was going to be awake anyway, I might as well learn to do something useful. It’s kind of soothing really.” He chuckles. “You should have seen my first scarf, it was terrible. Just as well the worms ate it, really.”
Jon keeps stroking the scarf. There’s a tightness in his chest and he feels his eyes begin to burn. He must be tired, if he’s having emotions over a scarf.
“Jon?” Martin sounds worried. “Do you like it? You’re petting it like a cat, so that probably means you like it but—“
“Sorry, I—“ Jon swallows and tries again, looking up at Martin this time, at the faint worry line creasing his forehead. “It’s beautiful, Martin. Thank you.”
The blush on Martin’s face deepens and creeps down towards his neck. “You’re not just saying that? It’s not fancy or anything, I can’t do much more than the basics right now.”
“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true,” Jon reassures him, wrapping the scarf around his neck before tucking it into his coat. The wool is soft against his neck, and the touch of it against his scars doesn’t cause that familiar feeling of repulsion. “How does it look?”
Martin blinks at Jon. “You look good,” he says. “I mean— the scarf. Looks good on you.”
“Thank you again,” Jon says. “And you must be just as tired as I am if you’re tripping over your words,” Later, much much later, he’ll wonder how he had missed something so blindingly obvious as Martin’s feelings for him back then. “Let’s go, shall we?”
The night air is cold as the two of them step out of the Institute, but Jon feels warm all the way home.